“In my isolation now I dream of finding some sweet young thing in a moonlighted chamber-one of those tender teenagers, as they call them now, who read my book and listened to my songs; one of the idealistic lovelies who wrote me fan letters on scented paper, during that brief period of ill-fated glory, talking of poetry and the power of illusion, saying she wished I was real; I dream of stealing into her darkened room, where maybe my book lies on a bedside table, with a pretty velvet marker in it, and I dream of touching her shoulder and smiling as our eyes meet. “Lestat! I always believed in you. I always knew you would come!”
I clasp her face in both hands as I bend to kiss her. “Yes, darling,” I answer, “and you don’t know how I need you, how I love you, how I always have.”